I ,'! .' \ J ' ,.'. " :" . " ,Lf . 4. r ' I' t x I 1 j ( .-"f it. Whenever I smell someone wearing Dad 7 s cologne it reminds me of those days when I was Jimmy 7 and he was still Daddy." e ttt #t n u. Every time I smell her perfume I think of the day we met and all our many d 71 ays to come I#- t - ".""q, .. '. J... , if -1' ; \ Yj 4. " If a pictu e IS worth a thousanJ words thltn your sense 0/ smellts worth a millio THE FRAGRANCE FOUNDATION r 1nore mfonnahon, write or fax: The Fragrance Foundaoon 145 E. 32nd St., New York NY 10016, fax. (212) 719 9058 ð .-1 ::r- '""I1 t-'t PJ O'Q. t-'t !)) ::J o (1ì ,21 ö p.... PJ rl- õ' t::! r-' -..0 -..0 CJt "- e...r sm .. >;, q .............. . f '\ v whole new year is before them like a long, cheap buffet? How could he be so strict and mean? " 1 ' h d . d " h " 1 ' ve c ange my mIn, e says. m happy. 1'm bursting" "You are not," she says, but she turns her face upward and smIles hopefully, like something brief and floral and in need of heat. "1 am," he insists, but looks away, to think, to think of anything else at all, to think of his ex-wife-bring me your old lovers, so I can love you, too-still living in St. Paul with his daughter who in five years will be Debbie's age. He believes that he was happy once then, for a long time, for a while. 'We are this far from divorce," his wife had said bitterly at the end. And if she had spread her arms wIde, she and Max might have been able to find a way back, the blinking, inter- mittent wit of her like a lighthouse to him, but no: she had held her index finger and her thumb up close to her face in a mean pinch of salt. Still, before he left, their marriage a spluttering but modest ruin, only two affairs and a dozen sharp words between them, they would come home from the small hu- miliations they endured at work, sepa- rately and alone, and they'd turn them somehow into desire. At the very end, they'd taken walks together in the cool, wintry light that sometimes claimed those last days of August-the air chill, leaves already dropping in wind and scuttling along the sidewalk, the neigh- borhood planted with ochre mums, even the tough weeds in bridal flower, the hy- drangea blooms gone green and drunk with their own juice. Who would not try to be happy? And just as he had then, on those walks, he remembers now how, as a boy in Duluth, he'd once imagined a mon- ster, a demon, chasing him home from school. 1 t was one particular winter: Christmas was past, the snow was dirty and crusted, hIs father was overseas, and his young sister Lily, home from the hospital's iron lung, lay dying of polio in her bed upstairs at home. His parents had always-discreetly, they probably felt, though also recklessly and maybe guiltily, too-enjoyed their daughter more than their serious older boy. Per- haps it was a surprise even to them- selves. But Max, in studying their looks and words, had discerned it, though in response he had never known what to